


Make Believe (He's Here)

by raeldaza



Series: Supernatural [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Les Amis are a group focused on hunting evil supernatural creatures, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are hunting a succubus, which can morph into the object of one’s desire. This is particularly unappealing to Courfeyrac, considering that the one he desires is hunting with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Believe (He's Here)

**Author's Note:**

> So the mythology here is slightly from lore, slightly from Supernatural, and slightly what I came up with for plot convenience. Sorry.

“Okay, I have a really, really weird one.”

Courfeyrac glances away from the TV, where the two challengers on _Cupcake Wars_ are trying to recreate Elsa’s castle. Enjolras is curled up on the couch, his laptop balanced precariously on one knee. Grantaire is sitting beside him, eyes in his novel, one hand gently caressing Enjolras’ hair. Courfeyrac can’t help the short rush of happiness for them.

“Weird how?” Combeferre asks, sitting slouched from the maroon velvet armchair across the way.

“Montparnasse sent it to me,” he says, and at that, they both sit up a little straighter, a little more interested.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac asks. Montparnasse is a hunter, of sorts. He’s a part of an organization – the Patron-Minette – who are similar to the Les Amis, except their cases usually are either a). illegal, of some sort, or b). offer a reward beyond the satisfaction of helping people. Enjolras is not fond of them, but it never hurts to keep in touch with other hunters. Personally, Courfeyrac can’t respect anyone who takes a reward for helping someone not die, but usually he keeps his opinions to himself.

“So, basically, there’s this woman out for hire. If you’re worried your significant other is cheating on you, she’ll do her best to seduce them. If they resist, she gets paid. If they fall victim, then she _disposes_ of them, covertly.”

“Interesting,” Combeferre says, leaning forward. “Succubus?”

“Or possibly siren, they’re not sure. Apparently, they were looking to use her services.” It’s impossible not to notice the derision in his voice. “One of their members, Babet, actually saw her morph. They followed her, and then proceeded to watch her eat all the flesh off a man in a bedroom.” There’s a moment of appreciative silence, in a purely academic, grossed out, business kind of way.

“Where is it?” Courfeyrac asks.

“West Iowa, right on the border of Nebraska. Long drive, 2 to 3 days with sleep.”

“Is there any more information that’d help us decide on succubus or siren? They’re killed differently.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “That’s all they gave me.”

“It sounds more succubus to me,” Courfeyrac interjects. “Sirens seduce to control; succubus seduce to eat. The ‘dispose’ part lends me to think the latter.”

“I agree,” Enjolras nods. “How do you want to work this hunt?”

“It’d be best undercover, I think,” Combeferre says, tapping his fingers. “We could easily have a ‘couple,’ and have one use her services. If it is a succubus, we have to wait until it is in her natural form, which would only happen when about to feed. The Patron-Minette could give us her number, we’d drive up, have a fake couple, hire her to seduce one of us, and then have the other person waiting for the kill.”

They all nod, and Enjolras clears his throat.

“Sounds good. Grantaire and I can be ready to go in an hour.”

“No,” says Courfeyrac firmly. “You two are grounded.”

“Oh, come on, that was _weeks ago_ —”

“Grounded,” Courfeyrac repeats, crossing his arms, and glaring down at where Enjolras is sheepishly curled up on the couch.

“But—”

“Combeferre.” Courfeyrac turns, eyebrows up, silently asking him to intercede. It’s 50% because he wants back up, and 50% because he’s incredibly susceptible to Enjolras blue puppy dog eyes, and he can feel his willpower melting.

“Courfeyrac’s right. Not you two, not together.” Combeferre nods, while Enjolras pouts silently on the couch. Grantaire is completely ignoring the entire conversation to continue reading _The Shining_ and play with Enjolras’ hair, which Courfeyrac thinks is a fair response. 

“Who are we sending, then?” Courfeyrac asks, scratching his head absentmindedly. “Feuilly is out with Jehan, that chupacabra hunt—”

“Just FYI,” Grantaire interrupts, eyes not rising from his book. “I am slightly worried that Jehan was so enthusiastic about that one because he wants to trap it and keep it as a pet.”

“—Bahorel is doing that ghoul thing in Texas,” Coufeyrac continues, ignoring Grantaire completely. “Eponine’s combat training with Cosette all this week, but I suppose we could pull her away.”

“Who do you think Eponine would agree to pretend to be a couple with?” Combeferre asks. They all go silent for a good thirty seconds, eyes scanning the ceiling in thought.

“We could always pull Cosette,” Courfeyrac amends awkwardly. “Marius is just organizing the stock room—”

“We’re not sending Pontmercy on a mission with a creature of seduction,” Enjolras says firmly.

“Fair,” Combeferre assents, which Courfeyrac momentarily thinks is rather unfair, before he lets his mental images take him on a trip on how that would turn out.

“And we can’t really have Cosette pretend to love anyone else; I doubt she’d agree, and Marius would burst a blood vessel.” Combeferre bites his lip, concentrating, which is slightly distracting for Courfeyrac.

“That leaves Joly, Bossuet, and you two.” Enjolras taps his fingers on his knee.

“Joly and Bossuet would be able to pull it off,” Courfeyrac says, tearing his gaze away from Combeferre’s thinking face. “No one would doubt them.”

“We’ll go ask them,” Combeferre agrees. “Thanks, Enjolras, for the tip.”

“Let me know what they say,” Enjolras nods, closing his laptop’s lid, and leaning into Grantaire.

“Will do,” Courfeyrac responds.

* * *

“No, absolutely not.”

“What? Why not?” Courfeyrac says, aghast.

“A succubus?”

“Or a siren,” Combeferre interjects. “Or possibly another creature altogether from a different mythology. You know, it bares a striking resemblance—”

“Combeferre,” Joly says gently. “The conclusion, please?”

Combeferre clicks his mouth shut, before reaffirming, “Succubus, we’re pretty sure.”

“Then no, absolutely not.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac whines. “You two would be great.”

“I’m asexual,” Joly reminds them.

“Oh, right,” both men say at the same time.

“It might still work,” Combeferre says thoughtfully. “It just needs to think you two are in love, and then send someone you, or in this case, Bossuet, desires. As long as it feeds off of Bossuet—”

“—Bossuet,” Joly interrupts. “Is currently on high pain medication for his broken arm. I’m positive that’s messing with his libido, and even if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t want someone on drugs with you on a hunt.” Joly smiles weakly. “I’d go with one of you, but I don’t want to potentially mess up the hunt. It’s better to be safe than sorry, as you well know.”

“Thanks anyway, Joly,” Combeferre says. He turns to Courfeyrac, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

* * *

 “Car packed?” Courfeyrac asks. Combeferre slams the trunk shut.

“Yep, I got the silver blade to kill it. We’ll have to get some blood of one its victims to coat the blade. I also packed some apples, an extra bag of socks, and an extra sweater in case you get cold.” Courfeyrac tries to ignore his heart going soft.

“Lovely! Road trip time!” He sings, dancing toward the car. Combeferre gives him a small, indulgent smile.

“Ready to drive to the middle of nowhere?” Combeferre asks, twirling the key around his finger.

“When am I _not?_ ” Courfeyrac says. “I’ve got a road trip mix, plenty of snacks, a sleeping bag for the nights in the car, a fake credit card for the hotels. I am beyond ready.”

“Let’s head out,” Combeferre says.

* * *

Two days in, and they’ve made it past Hastings Nebraska, and Courfeyrac has his feet on the dash, and he’s idly humming along to the radio as they streak by farm after farm, an empty blue sky about their head, and flat pavement in front of them for miles and miles. He’s tapping on his phone, about three moves away from losing at 4 suit spider solitaire, and he’s suddenly struck by a thought, one that should have hit him about two days ago.

“ _Wait_ —” Courfeyrac gasps, making Combeferre slam on his brakes. He lurches forward, his feet sliding forward and hitting into the all-to-close windshield of the tiny Ford.

“ _What?”_ Combeferre asks loudly, hands clutching the black steering wheel, his fingers going white. His eyes are shifting all over the road, and Courfeyrac would feel guilty, but he’s just had a mini-epiphany here, and it’s not a good one.

“You need to pull over; I need to call Enjolras.”

“So I’m not about to hit or kill somebody?”

“If you stay stationary in the middle of the road, the latter one may change,” Courfeyrac points out. His hand is shaking slightly, and he clutches it into a fist. He tries to concentrate on how the seat feels against his hand, warm and almost felt like, just so he won’t think of his mini revelation.

“Okay, right, pulling over.” He maneuvers the car to the side of the road, all too slow. As it comes to a halt, Courfeyrac pushes open the door, perhaps too aggressively, and begins stepping out.

“Where are you going?” Combeferre’s voice calls him back. Halfway out of the car, he looks back, a little incredulous.

“To call Enjolras?”

“You can’t do that in the car?”

“I need to do it _privately,_ ” Courfeyrac emphasizes, possibly too harshly. “Otherwise I could have just done it while you were driving.”

“Right, okay, fine,” Combeferre mutters, looking away. “Have your private conversation.” Courfeyrac kind of wants to respond to that, but doesn’t really have the time, so he just slams the door shut.

They’re on a fairly abandoned highway somewhere near Iowa. As far as the eye can see is rolling plains; green, too tall grass on one side, overgrown with wildflowers and the occasionally limp tree. The other side, the right side, is corn, stalks and stalks of it, thousands upon thousands of ears. The road is paved, but cracked, and Courfeyrac tries not to stumble over it as he makes his way towards the corn. It slightly terrifies him, the mundane exact repetitiveness of the stalks. It all looks identical; if he were lost, there would be no landmark in which to help him be found. The unchanging waves of it are unnerving, and so he only takes one step in, dialing speed dial number three. It rings three times, and he can’t help tapping his foot, one hand running through his hair.

“Hello?” Enjolras picks up, sounding a little breathless, which Courfeyrac elects to ignore.

“I think we have a problem,” Courfeyrac says, taking a deep breath.

“What is it?” Enjolras says, voice suddenly taut, all business.

“This hunt, this succubus hunt. I wasn’t thinking when I agreed to go on it. I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

“What? Why not?”

“Okay, so, if it’s a succubus, it turns into the object of my desires, and as it tries to seduce me, we’ll stab it and be done, right?”

“Yeah?” Enjolras confirms, sounding confused.

“Right, so, that plan has the creature turning into the object of my desire, and then having _both of us_ see it and kill it.”

“Or the object of Combeferre’s,” Enjolras adds. “If you’re doing it that way.”

“You’re missing the _point,_ ” Courfeyrac growls. He hits a corn stalk, which flops backwards a foot or so, and then back forwards, and it’s about the most unsatisfying thing Courfeyrac ever punched, and he’s punched a lot of things.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the point.” Enjolras does, indeed, sound quite baffled, and Courfeyrac isn’t sure if he should be surprised at or not.

“Look, I don’t want Combeferre seeing the object of my desire.”

“Courf.” And great, now he sounds placating. “He’s not going to judge you—”

“Okay, screw you, that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras says, and it sounds like he truly doesn’t. Courfeyrac sighs.

“Can’t you just drive up and take my place?”

“You’re almost a 3 days drive,” Enjolras says, which basically means _dude, no._ “And how are you going to explain that to Combeferre? If you tell the truth, it’ll sound ridiculous. You know he won’t judge you for what you physically desire.”

“I’m not worried about judgment,” Courfeyrac says, perhaps too loudly, because a crow flies off from a nearby tree, cawing its sad song.

“Then what?” With a deep sigh, Courfeyrac realizes where this conversation has to go, if Enjolras will ever agree to come up. He’s not a man who will do something without knowing the reasoning behind it, especially something that’d cause a hunt to go over, and thus endanger more people.

He’s going to have to fess up.

“Hand the phone to Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, scuffing his toe in the dirt.

“What? Why?”

“I know he’s there, you were out of breath when you answered the phone, just give it to him.” And with a rather undignified, embarrassed squeak, Courfeyrac hears the phone change hands.

“Sup?” And there’s Grantaire’s low baritone.

“Look, can you come up and take my place in this hunt? No questions asked?”

“Sure,” Grantaire replies easily, and Courfeyrac sort of loves him in that moment.

“You’re a god amongst men,” Courfeyrac answers.

“I know,” Grantaire says. “Do you want me to leave now?” Courfeyrac’s about to answer, but there’s a slight scuffle on the other end. He takes the phone away from his ear with a slight wince when he hears a rather loud shout, which sounds suspiciously like Enjolras jumping on top of someone.

“He’s not going with you,” Enjolras says, after fighting it back into his hand. “Not until you explain.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Explain,” Enjolras says again, and Courfeyrac has had it.

“I don’t want him seeing a succubus himself,” Courfeyrac snaps. The line goes quiet, and Courfeyrac puts his head in his hand, suddenly tired. “You’ve known us a long time, Enjolras. You had to have caught on.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Enjolras says softly, a rather large shift in demeanor from what it had been a moment ago. “I wondered, at first, but nothing ever happened, and neither of you said a word. I just thought you were both very fond of each other.”

“We are. I just happen to mean it in a more, you know,” he sighs. “Unreciprocated, intense way.”

“Are you sure it’s unreciprocated?”

“Been there, done that,” Courfeyrac says, which is as much detail as he wants to give about the entirely humiliating and possibly worst experience of his life that was getting his advances rejected by Combeferre way back in their first month of acquaintance.

It had been an immediate attraction for him. They were only eighteen, which was, Lord, going on eight years ago. They had met in the first year of university when Courfeyrac had sat next to him in an 8AM. His entire train of thought had been – _wow, hot, let’s do that –_ which he finds slightly embarrassing now, considering how much more there is to Combeferre than his appearance. They had established an easy camaraderie, and three weeks in, Courfeyrac made his unsubtle, ungraceful, but entirely straightforward pick up move.

Needless to say, it was rejected. Also needless to say, Courfeyrac had been slightly heartbroken.

Four weeks in, and Courfeyrac was completely ignoring Combeferre, licking his wounds in silence.

Five weeks in, to Courfeyrac’s bewilderment and Combeferre’s complete lack of surprise, their calculus professor had been a demon. They had gone into office hours to find a skinny kid in red jeans fighting her off, and thus was the beginning of the Les Amis. Despite his humiliation with rejection, there’s somethings you come out of being friends regardless – fighting mountain trolls, and frantically doing a google search for an exorcism chant while two people hold down your frothing professor are included.

Courfeyrac had never revisited the possibility of asking him out. In the beginning, it was too raw, too painful. As time went on, he saw no indication that Combeferre’s answer would change, and so he kept letting it slip by, letting the memory turn into an abandoned pinprick in the back of his mind – painful, if you poke at it, but otherwise harmless, unattended in the back of your brain.

“You’re sure?” Enjolras repeats.

“I’m sure,” Courfeyrac says. It’s one of the only things he is sure of in this world.

“Look, Courf, how about you just have him be the one who the succubus is trying to seduce? It’ll solve all the problems.”

“Because we already agreed that it’d be me, and it’d seem weird if I just randomly ask to change it,” Courfeyrac says, rubbing his eyes, which are infuriatingly turning a bit misty, and he’s not even sure if it’s because of the humidity or his own wayward emotions.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras starts, but sighs heavily instead of continuing.

“Please,” he says quietly. “Please. I forgot about this all when I took the case, but it’s not too late. I don’t want to ruin our easy friendship. I don’t want him to have to look himself in the eye while he stabs it. I don’t want him to see himself seducing me. I don’t want him to know.”

Enjolras is quiet on the other end.

“I’ll send Grantaire up,” he says finally, and Courfeyrac sends a silent thank you into the void. “Say he’s getting restless or something. Okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“You too,” Enjolras says, before ending the phone call. Courfeyrac takes a deep breath, steadying his heartbeat and emotions, and tries to will away the angry blush that hasn’t left his face for a good five minutes. He walks slowly back to the car, opening the door. Combeferre glances over.

“Everything okay?”

“Great, thanks. We can keep going to the hotel.” Combeferre silently nods, and the car starts with a whirl. Courfeyrac takes a small breath of relief at the cool air conditioning that blows out the small vents. Combeferre eases back onto the highway, going so slowly that Courfeyrac physically can’t watch. As he gradually gets up to speed, he spares a glance for Courfeyrac.

“Can I ask what that was about?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Courfeyrac says, closing his eyes.

“Okay,” Combeferre responds, looking ahead. He doesn’t ask anything else – and this is one, out of a thousand reasons, why Courfeyrac loves him. 

* * *

“Wow, nice pick,” Combeferre says a moment after they’ve opened the hotel room door.

“It looked better on the website.” And it really, truly did. Its aesthetic is somewhere in-between disco and 60s hippie vibe; the walls are black and white intersecting circles, while the carpet is green with purple and orange polka dots. The only armchair is a neon pink plush, and the bedspreads have hundreds of tiny cartoon singing Elvis. There is actually a disco ball hanging in the center of the room, which contrasts poorly with the dangling LED lights.

“It’s got a bed and a bathroom, so it’ll do,” Combeferre says, laying his duffel on the bed. He takes a shotgun out of it, immediately disassembling it, which really isn’t an appropriate thing to find attractive, so Courfeyrac turns away, towards his own bed, laying his package of rock candy from a gas station on his bed.

“Hey, Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah?” He answers, not turning.

“Where can you dance in California?” Courfeyrac looks over his shoulder, where Combeferre is currently cleaning a part of the gun.

“I’m not sure?”  

Not looking up, Combeferre says, “in San Fran-disco.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“But not now,” Combeferre spares him a smile and wink. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer – mostly because it’s true. 

* * *

“So, Montparnasse gave me the succubus’ phone number. Before I call, let’s just make sure I have the story straight. You’re my boyfriend of two years, and I think you’re falling out of love with me. I want to check if you’d sleep with someone else given the temptation. We set up a time for her to come to the hotel when I’m supposedly at bingo, while I’m actually outside the door. She comes, and the moment she transforms, you call for me, I burst in, and we stab her. Sound right?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, before swallowing loudly. “I was wondering, actually, if maybe we could trade roles. You could be the cheating boyfriend, and I could be the sad, unloved guy.”

“I don’t know think so,” Combeferre says slowly, and Courfeyrac feels his heart drop. 

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure anyone would believe that I’d be unfaithful.” Courfeyrac feels a stirring in the middle of his stomach, and this time, it’s from anger. He rips open his duffel bag, and starts fumbling through it wildly, looking vaguely for showering materials.

“Oh, and it’s so easy to imagine me cheating on someone? It’s so _easy_ to imagine me being unfaithful?”

“No, I just don’t think anyone would believe I’d cheat when I had someone like you. It’s much more believable the other way around.”

“ _What,”_ Courfeyrac says loudly, much too loudly, because Combeferre winces. “Where in the _hell_ do you get that idea?”

“It just, uh, seemed obvious to me?” Combeferre scratches the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable.

“That’s bullshit,” Courfeyrac fumes. He’s not even sure if he’s angry at Combeferre for insinuating he could be a cheater, or because Combeferre thinks so low of himself that he’d assume someone would cheat on him. He simultaneously wants to yell at him for being an asshole and also for not being kind enough to himself.

“Okay, it’s fine, we can switch roles, it doesn’t matter to me,” Combeferre says quickly. They almost never fight, and when they do, one of them always caves quickly, just to end it.

“Good. I’m curious what your succubus will transform into. You never talk about what you’re attracted to.”

Combeferre pales visibly.

“Wait, maybe switching isn’t a good idea.”

“No, you already agreed,” Courfeyrac says. He grabs his shampoo and towel. “For once I get to play the heartbroken lover of the uninterested.”

“Don’t you think that fits me better than you?” Combeferre asks quietly, and Courfeyrac doesn’t really know what to make of that.

“No,” he says after a moment. “I don’t.” And with that, he gathers his things, and heads off to the shower. 

* * *

Courfeyrac steps out of the shower, still feeling a little shaken by his fight with Combeferre. This whole situation is getting out of hand. He pads back into the main room, and Combeferre is hunched over the small, out of style wooden desk, reading what looks to be a mythology book. He doesn’t spare a glance for Courfeyrac, and he digs his toes into the carpet, refusing to let it bother him.

He’s in his sweatpants and an old shirt, and he’s tired and lonely and unhappy, and all he really wants to do is climb under the covers and hide, and maybe stay there for a couple days. With room service. And wifi.

Idly thinking about going out for Taco Bell, he starts toweling off his hair, and almost misses Combeferre speak quietly, still not turning around.

“I called the succubus. Her name is Mara, and I’m going to meet her at a bar in town tomorrow to go over how to best set you up.”

“What?” Courfeyrac asks incredulously, dropping the towel. “You called her without me? And you’re going to meet her? You agreed to switch positions!”

“We agreed first that you’d be the seduced.”

“And then I unagreed.”

“Too late,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac is so surprised at this complete disregard for his feelings that he honestly doesn’t even know how to respond. He just stands in the middle of the room, gawping, and Combeferre remains stock still, unturned at the desk.

Courfeyrac’s breathing heavily, angrily, and it takes several long, tense moments, but Combeferre drops his book he wasn’t reading, and sighs heavily.

“Courfeyrac—”

“I’m actually really upset at you, so please don’t talk to me right now.” He stalks over to his bed and gets in, pulling the covers over his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, pushing back his tears, and pushes his head as hard as he can into the pillow. His hair is still wet, and he knows sleeping on it will mean it being a bush tomorrow, but he’ll deal in the morning.

It’s over an hour until he hears Combeferre softly get into the other bed, and flip off the light.

He’s up for another hour, silently crying, desperately hoping Grantaire speeds on his way.

* * *

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre whispers. Courfeyrac groans. He feels a small shaking of his shoulder. “Courf, wake up.”

“What time is it?” He slurs, eyes still shut.

“Five AM,” Combeferre whispers back, still shaking his shoulder. Courfeyrac grabs the bedspread and shoves it back over his head.

“What is _wrong_ with you? You’re the real monster here. 5 AM, Jesus.”

“Courfeyrac, we need to go to the morgue and get the body parts of the last victim to line the blade with before it opens at 7. You need to get up.” Courfeyrac spends another second huddled under the warm pressure of his blanket, before sitting up abruptly, almost hitting Combeferre.

He yawns loudly and stretches, feeling sleepy and all too comfortable.

Combeferre is kneeling at his bedside, his arms crossed and resting on the bedside table. He looks immaculate; he’s obviously already showered, and his short black hair is glistening with water, and he’s wearing a tight white button down with a grey blazer, and Courfeyrac spends an irrational moment being absurdly jealous that Combeferre is a morning person.

“How can you look so put together so early?” He grumbles, shifting out of bed. He’s in ratty red sweatpants with a pink crop top, his hair is a nest, and he knows he basically looks like a sleep-deprived mess.

“I’ve been up for an hour. You’d look twice as good as me if you’d been up for an hour as well.” Courfeyrac sends him a small smile, and pulls him into a quick morning hug. Combeferre’s arms sneak around his waist, holding him gently, and Courfeyrac can’t help but stick his nose in his neck, his arms around his neck, holding on dearly. He leans his weight against Combeferre, and he takes it, takes all of it, basically holding him up.

“I’m tired, Ferre,” he mumbles.

“I know. But we can go get doughnuts.”

“You really know how to sweet talk a man,” Courfeyrac whispers, pulling away slowly. He gives Combeferre a little, tired smile, before stumbling his way into the bathroom.

He’s halfway through his shower before he remembers he’s supposed to be angry.

* * *

 “Oh my _fuck_ , is that a liver? A _human_ liver?”

“I’d assume so, Courf,” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes.

“Shit. Fighting monsters should not be this gross. I did not sign up for this shit,” Courfeyrac says, covering his nose with his hand.

“I’ve seen you eat liver, Courfeyrac, why is this different?”

“Because it’s a place with dead people!” He exclaims, waving his hand frantically. “Context is everything. You wouldn’t eat a hot dog at a farm.”

“I probably would,” Combeferre says, reaching over Courfeyrac to look at the label on the next Tupperware container.

“Well, you’re the problem then,” Courfeyrac grumbles. “And if we’re looking for Holly Stanton, she’s on the bottom left.” He yawns largely, and takes a look at his watch. 6:25. Being up this early feels like a crime, if only against himself.

“You’re right,” Combeferre says, leaning down to grab a container. “Here’s a vital organ we can squeeze over our blade.”

“Lovely,” Courfeyrac yawns, leaning against the fridge.

“Do you think we should take it with us?” Combeferre asks, squinting at the heart that’s rolling around in the tub.

“Nah,” Courfeyrac says, eyes closing. “They’d notice if it went missing. Just take it out and squeeze the blood on the blade, and it can dry as we’re getting out of here. We need to get going; I don’t want them to notice I broke the lock.”

“I thought you said you could pick locks,” Combeferre says, now moving to rub the blood of the victim over the blade. Courfeyrac seriously doesn’t understand why killing these creatures have to be so specific; wouldn’t shoving it inside a chippershredder work? Why does it have things like a moonstone knife carved with a bunny’s leg under the first full moon of the year? Pagans, seriously.

“I said I could open locks. And I opened it.”

“With a tree cutter,” Combeferre says, like that somehow invalidates the fact that they’ve made it inside. There weren’t even any alarms; apparently morgues aren’t too worried about thievery.

“Hurry up,” Courfeyrac says, ignoring the last comment. “I want doughnuts.”

“We passed a place on the way,” Combeferre says, gently placing the now bloody knives into a plastic bag, and replacing the heart in the Tupperware. “They had a sign for blueberry fritter doughnuts.”

“Sign me the fuck up,” Courfeyrac says, pushing himself off the fridge.

It almost feels normal, and when Combeferre throws an easy arm around his shoulders and pulls him down the hallway, laughing all the while, he’s forcibly reminded of why all this is worth it in the first place. 

* * *

“Okay, I’m due to meet her here in ten minutes. You go and play some pool, pretend to flirt with one of those people playing. She wants to see what you look like. Fake flirting would really sell the whole cheating boyfriend gimmick.”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac agrees, though he really doesn’t feel like going through the effort of flirting with anyone. He’s far more interested in what a succubus looks like than getting laid. But, he must do what has to be done for the hunt to function properly.

The bar is a little seedy, but nothing more or less than you’d expect from a hole in the wall in nowhere Iowa. It looks a surprisingly large amount like an old western saloon, complete with batwing doors, various sized barstools, old and rather precarious wood flooring, low hanging lights, and even a cow’s head mounted on the corner wall. It’s dim inside, perhaps a little too much so, and it’s thick with the smell of tobacco and cigarette smoke floating through the air. Courfeyrac carefully makes his way over to the worn pool table, doing a quick scan of who’s there.

A couple of middle aged men, what looks like three college boys, and two 20 something year old women. He immediately decides to go with the small brunette, because, firstly, Iowa isn’t known for it’s sexual toleration, and secondly, she looks about as done as could be with the cowboy booted, leering, breast staring, plaid button up man a third of an inch from her.

It turns out her name is Kelsey, and she’s very nice and very polite, and very glad he’s from out of town. He’s actually quite enjoying her story about her iguana escaping, when, over her head, he can see Combeferre greet a woman.

She’s beautiful, in that supernatural way that always looks a little other worldly, a little wrong, just on the edge of too perfect. She’s tall, almost six foot, with flowing black hair, and dark skin just a shade lighter than Combeferre’s. She’s dressed to kill, literally, with a jumpsuit that’s oddly reminiscent of Black Widow’s.

She’s probably the sexual interest of every person in the bar, which is even more of a given considering how many heads are turned her way, and Courfeyrac actually doesn’t think he’s ever been less interested in someone in his life, and it’s not even because she’s a flesh eating monster.

He tries to turn his attention back to Kelsey, although even she’s now stealing glances at the succubus. Their conversation seems to be going well, if Combeferre’s body language is any indication, which it always is.

He tears his gaze away from Mara for a moment to smile at Kelsey, and take a sip of his drink, some terrible scotch he can’t believe Combeferre talked him into, and then lets his gaze slide back. He promptly startles so hard he spills his drink half way down his shirt, seeping through the light blue coloring. He swears, and by the time he looks back, Mara is back looking like she should.

Instead of looking like a perfect replica of Courfeyrac. 

* * *

“Did she transform in front of you?” Courfeyrac demands the second they’re out of the bar. It’s a crisp, cool night, and the sky above is wide, so wide, and a navy blue that’s only found in nature. Night is falling fast, along with the temperature, and Courfeyrac valiantly ignores the cool breeze brushing against his face. “Why would she do that? Does she know _we know_ she’s a supernatural creature?”

“She doesn’t know we’re here to kill her,” Combeferre starts, which is probably the most important thing in the long run. “She knows Montparnasse, and when I said he referred me, she instantly knew I know what she really does. She offered me a glimpse of her skills, so I’d know exactly what I was getting myself into.”

“You mean transforming into me,” Courfeyrac states, which makes Combeferre look down at his shoes. “I looked over and saw that, and let me tell you, creepy as fuck. How’d she know we knew each other?”

“What?”

“I mean, she gave you a preview of her services, transforming into me because we know each other. Because you’d instantly recognize me.” Courfeyrac explains, which he really doesn’t feel like he should have to; Combeferre’s smart enough to put this together on his own. Combeferre stares at him for a moment, before nodding.

“Yes, that’s what happened.”

“So, how’d she know we knew each other?” Courfeyrac asks again.

“I mentioned it,” Combeferre says, and when he doesn’t elaborate, Courfeyrac gets the distinct impression he’s avoiding the subject.

But with all avoidance Courfeyrac’s been doing this weekend, he supposes he can let it slide.

“So, what’s the plan, then?”

“Tomorrow she’s coming to the hotel room to scope it out. I’m meeting her at noon, and paying her an advance, just in case she doesn’t get to eat you.” Courfeyac winces slightly at that. “She thinks she’s coming back at 7 for the seducing. I elect we kill her when I’m paying her, just to avoid that whole ‘see the object of your desires,’ because you’re obviously uncomfortable with that.” Courfeyrac never explicitly said that, but trust Combeferre to figure it out.

“Sounds like a plan. Hopefully this wraps up quickly; I haven’t been feeling that well.” He needs to make a fall back plan, just in case their original plan doesn’t work, so he can force Grantaire to take his place, and Combeferre won’t think it suspicious.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre frowns, and steps forward, placing his hand on Courfeyrac’s forehead. “You’re not feverish. Do you need some tea? Let’s get you back.” As Combeferre herds him back to the car, he can’t help but feel slightly guilty.

But it’s all for the longevity of their friendship, which, in the end, trumps all. 

* * *

Courfeyrac’s been waiting in a chair in their hotel lobby for over ten minutes, and when he catches himself tapping his feet to the beat of _Under the Sea_ , he knows it’s time to get up.

He’s waiting for the succubus to come in; he’s strategically placed so he can’t really be seen behind a plant, but he can still tell who’s coming through the door.

So far, there has been no hint of the creature, and he’s starting to get worried that she either a). transformed into a different person, or b). came in while he was in the bathroom. Knowing his luck, it could be either.

He decides to check on Combeferre, and quickly bounces out of his seat, and heads over to the their room, number #246.

As he gets closer, he can see that their door is slightly propped open, and he immediately goes on edge. He quietly takes out the knife hidden in his sock, and bares it down, and silently prowls towards the door.

There’s no one else who could get into a locked hotel room – just Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Grantaire (if he finally made it and called Combeferre to let him in), and the succubus. And as that voice coming from the room was far too high to be R, that left one answer. Courfeyrac creeps forward, watching his converse clad feet advance slowly on the disgusting, 1970s, green and orange triangle carpet. Vaguely, he knows he should probably have his head up, but these are _new shoes,_ and the floor looks like it could easily have hepatitis on it, so he watches his step, and creeps up to the door.

The voice calms slightly, and the low cadence sounds quite familiar to Courfeyrac, oddly enough. He sidles up to the door, balanced on the balls of his feet. He slowly grabs the cold, bronze knob, and turns the door open, slowly and quietly enough not to gain any attention. He clutches the knife in his left hand over and over, his palm going sweaty.

Crouching, he tiptoes into the room, before catching glance of who’s standing there. In his complete and utter shock, he stands straight up, drops the knife, mouth dropping and eyes widening.

“What the _ever-loving fuck_ —” Courfeyrac can’t help but screech out.

Both Combeferre and Enjolras’ eyes snap over to him, wide with surprise.

Courfeyrac just talked to Enjolras two days ago, and he said he was sending _Grantaire_ up – only Grantaire. With that being the case, the only other creature that could be inside would be the creature.

The personification of Combeferre’s desire.

“Oh, _fuck no,_ come on, how is that _fair_ ,” Courfeyrac wails. Both Combeferre and the not-Enjolras stare at him, and in their surprise, Courfeyrac takes the moment to leap at the fake Enjolras. He definitely takes him off guard, and his arms catch him around the neck, and he pulls them both down to the ground, hard. The both make a large oomph, and Combeferre sounds like he makes a squeak, and Courfeyrac quickly rolls on top of the creature. His knee shoves into Enjolras’ chest, holding him down, and his hand goes to his neck, ready to choke, to hold as Combeferre gets the knife. Before he can, though, Enjolras’ eyes widen, into the large puppy-dog blue, icy stare he has, the one that always makes Courfeyrac go a little limp, and he can’t help his hand loosening slightly.

In his moment of weakness, the creature pushes Courfeyrac off, making him fall back and his head slam painfully into the carpet. To Courfeyrac’s dim surprise, the non-Enjolras runs behind Combeferre, obviously hiding, eyes peeking over his shoulder. It’s an entirely Enjolras’ type move, and an entirely not-succubus type one, and Courfeyrac is confused.

“What the hell?” Combeferre asks, sounding horrified.

“Seriously,” Enjolras says from behind his shoulder, and suddenly Courfeyrac is thinking maybe he jumped to conclusions.

“Okay, I am thinking that you’re not the succubus then?”

“What?” Both Enjolras and Combeferre exclaim, voices ringing together. It sounds so good that Courfeyrac makes a quick mental note to force them to sing a duet when they get back home.

“You’re supposed to be back home, and a succubus turning into a desiresome creature is trying to come into our room. That’s not an unreasonable assumption to make.”

“Ew,” Enjolras says, at the same time Combeferre says, with a fair amount of disgust in his voice,

“You desire Enjolras?”

“No, why would I?” At Enjolras’ faint sound of disapproval, he looks over. “Other than your banging body and long legs and floppy hair and pretty eyes and angry personality, of course,” He amends, winking. Enjolras gives a faint sound of approval, and Courfeyrac turns back to Combeferre, who still looks slightly sickened.

“No, you’re the one in the room. You’re the one it’d be trying to seduce, Enjolras would be _your_ object of desire.”

“You think I desire Enjolras?”

“I don’t know!” Courfeyrac throws his hands in the air. “Who knows what you desire? It’s not like you talk about it or anything. You’re in here, a creature is going to shapeshift into your desire, and I walk in and Enjolras, who is really not supposed to be here, is here. What assumption am I supposed to make?”

“Not that I’ve secretly been wanting to fuck Enjolras!” Combeferre says, fraught.

“Why are you even here?” Courfeyrac turns on Enjolras, who’s standing behind Combeferre, watching them. He wants to move the conversation back to coherency. “Sorry about your throat, by the way.”

“I got restless,” Enjolras says, side-eyeing Combeferre. Courfeyrac immediately recognizes the phony excuse Grantaire was going to give. At least he still is being discreet for Courfeyrac’s sake, despite the fact that he body tackled him to the ground and tried to choke him to death.

“And you weren’t going to stay with Grantaire?” Courfeyrac prods, really asking where the fuck Grantaire is.

“Oh, he went to drive somewhere, and sneezed so violently that he hit the steering wheel and gave himself a bloody nose.” Well, that’d explain that. “He was indisposedly moaning in bed, so I decided to come up and see you guys. Help you on the hunt.” He karate chops the air, like the dork he is.

“I’m surprised you left a Grantaire who was moaning in bed,” Courfeyrac winks, making Enjolras flush violently. “But we’re glad for your help, aren’t we, Combeferre?”

Combeferre makes a vague noise that Courfeyrac doesn’t even attempt to interpret.

“And, since I’ve been feeling under the weather, how about I take Enjolras’ car, and you guys do this hunt? It’ll be a great bonding experience.” He claps Enjolras on the back, feeling slightly proud of his own diversion skills.

“That’s a bit of a waste,” Combeferre says. “You’re already here. Why don’t we all three just try to solve it? It’ll be just like old times, like at the beginning.”

Like at the beginning, when his feelings felt perpetually bruised and aching towards Combeferre. This entire, albeit short, experience has been nothing but painful and unpleasant for Courfeyrac, but he can’t really say no to Combeferre’s pleading expression or Enjolras’ guarded one, so he just smiles weakly, and acquiesces. 

* * *

“She texted me. Apparently she ‘ _Got caught up eating and forgot – bloody hell, sorry!’”_ Combeferre wrinkles his nose. “Was that a pun?”

“Let’s just say no for sanity,” Courfeyrac says. “What now?”

“She says I can pay her associate at the bar tonight, while she does the seduction.” He looks up, wide-eyed. “Separating us ruins the plan.”

“Okay, I vote for a new plan,” Courfeyrac says. He leans up against the bed, taking a deep breath. “I think Combeferre should go to the bar, meet up with the associate, deal with that. Meanwhile, I’ll be here, and have the knife up my sleeve. When she comes, I’ll stab her before she knows what’s coming. Enjolras, I’ll be on call with you, so you can hear what’s happening. If you need to intervene here, you’ll be able to hear. I don’t know if you should be at the bar with Combeferre or near the hotel.”

“Hotel,” Enjolras says thoughtfully. “You’re the one in immediate danger.”

“I want to be on that call as well, just in case,” Combeferre says. “I know your phone can do three way calling.”

“You’ll be busy,” Courfeyrac says. “You know, with the associate.”

“Still.” Combeferre smiles weakly, a sad one, and his shoulder are slumped, and Courfeyrac wants to know why exactly this plan is a bad one. “Still. If you’re in danger, I want to hear it.”

“Okay, fine,” Courfeyrac agrees, only because he’s confident Combeferre will be too busy to possibly listen in to what will most likely go down as his most humiliating experience killing.

“Lets get crackalacking,” Enjolras says, which immediately makes Courfeyrac want to hug him, and does make Combeferre swat him on the back of the head. 

* * *

Courfeyrac’s alone, with Enjolras and Combeferre both on the line of his cell, which is placed face up on the bedside table. He’s waiting for the succubus, who’s late, which isn’t overly reassuring. He’s flipping through the Gideon Bible in the drawer while waiting, and he’s pleasantly surprised by how distracting Ecclesiastes is. He makes a mental note to tell Grantaire about it; he thinks he’d appreciate Solomon’s outlook on life.

He’s focusing on chapter two, and is promptly scared into dropping the Bible when the door bangs open, slamming into the wall next to it. He momentarily hopes there isn’t a god, because dropping his holy book upside down is just one more thing to put on the sin list, and then he captures sight of who it is.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” He hurries over to Combeferre, who’s sporting a bloody nose.

“She knew. She knew the whole time. We’re so stupid, Courfeyrac; they can _read minds,_ that’s why they know who people desire! Of course she knew it was a set up from the start.”

“Oh fuck,” Courfeyrac groans. “How long have we been at this and we didn’t realize? That’s fucking embarrassing as hell. What happened?” Combeferre sends him a withering look.

“She tried to eat me, what do you think happened?”

“Where is she?” Courfeyrac asks, hastily getting his knife out of his sleeve from where it was stashed.

“Enjolras took care of her. We cleared out the bar pretty fast, and it was a decently fair fight. Having Enjolras on the line was a great help. He stabbed her right in the back.”

“Thank God,” Courfeyrac breathes out. “Come on, sit down, and let’s take a look at that nose.”

It’s bloody and looks somewhat misshapen, like he may have cracked it, and Courfeyrac winces in sympathy.

“God, I wish I was there. Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course. You’re not hurt, right?”

“No, of course not, she never came here. It was a trap from the beginning.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at all 3 of them, unable to help it. “Eight years in training and we make this kind of rookie mistake. God, Enjolras is going to freak – wait, where is Enjolras?”

“Disposing of the body.”

“Why aren’t you helping?” Combeferre’s eyes turn to him, expression going soft.

“I had to make sure you were okay.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks, puzzled. “You knew where she was.”

“On the off chance she actually did have an associate, instead of just trying to separate us. Your safety is the most important thing in the world to me.” Courfeyrac’s breath hitches.

“Well, she didn’t,” he says, pitch slightly too high to be normal. “I’m safe and sound.”

“I can see that,” Combeferre says, and he leans his head into Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and he can’t help but to pull him close, and cradle him to his chest.

“So worried,” Combeferre murmurs. “So worried.”

“Why? You know I can take care of myself.”

“You know why,” Combeferre says, eyes shut against Courfeyrac’s chest. “You can’t help but worry about those you love.”

“I love you too,” Courfeyrac says, and he means it in every possible way.

“Not like I do,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac swears his heart stops a moment.

“I swear I do. Any way you mean it, I mean it, I swear to fucking God, Combeferre.” Combeferre sits up slightly, so his face is an inch or so away from Courfeyrac. He stares wildly into Courfeyrac’s eyes, amber meeting green. Courfeyrac tries to hold his glance steady, but finds it incredibly difficult.

“Stop me if I’m wrong,” Combeferre says, and he’s leaning in, and Courfeyrac can’t believe this, how is this happening, he can’t _believe this –_

And there’s a touch of lips, and he’s being pushed down into a laying position, and Combeferre reaches up to pin his arms above his head, and his hips are held underneath Combeferre’s, and his heart won’t stop beating, and for some reason he can’t stop fucking _blinking,_ like he can’t believe what his eyes are taking in.

Combeferre leans in, and nips him on the ear, before whispering into it.

“To be completely fair,” he breathes, “I did know your plan from the beginning. Just, this way, I get to eat with your friends out of the way.”

Courfeyrac’s entire body runs cold, like a bucket of ice thrown over him, and _stupid stupid stupid,_ how could he be so fucking _stupid,_ and with the pinned position she’s got him in, he’s completely helpless.

Inanely, he’s impressed by the succubus’ ability to act and bullshit, it really is quite impressive, even though it may just cost him his life.

“Enjolras,” he yells, hoping he’s still on the phone, despite the awkward love confessions. “It’s the succubus, come, come,” and there goes a hand over his mouth, and he’s struggling, pushing her off him as best he can.

She’s transformed back now into her natural state, the state she can be killed in, and now he can see the long, poisonous tongue, and sharp, fanged teeth just waiting to sink into his pumping flesh. She puts a hand on his chest and pushes him down stronger than should be possible, pinning him to the bed. He pushes back, struggling, and manages to get his arm up, hitting her square in the stomach. She flinches back a few inches, hissing. She moves forward again, and this time, he’s able to pull his foot up suddenly, kicking her in the face, and once again he’s thrilled his parents forced him to take three years of Judo.

He’s rolling off the bed and up on his feet in moments, and his knife is now out of his sleeve and into his hand, and he’s still physically outmatched, but now it will at least be a fight. They’re crouched towards one another, both on the balls of the feet, sizing each other up like a bull and a matador.

He’s about to leap when the door flies open, and there’s Enjolras, and Enjolras doesn’t even stop a moment, just lunges towards the succubus, barrel hitting her and knocking her straight to the ground. Courfeyrac leaps, and with Enjolras' tight hold on her head, he manages to shove the blade straight through her heart.

She convulses, and it’s particularly unpleasant this time, even though watching creatures slowly die is never quite a good time, and blood is quickly staining the carpet, and Courfeyrac is so, so glad they gave a fake name to the hotel.

“Dude, thanks,” he says, when he manages to catch his breath.

“Don’t call me dude,” Enjolras wheezes. He pulls himself upright, and then lends a hand to Courfeyrac. “I heard the fake Combeferre on the phone, saying fake me was disposing of a body. I’m sorry it took so long; I realized I didn’t have any weapons on me.”

“Fuck, when did we turn into such amateurs?”

“I don’t know, but it’s worrying,” Enjolras answers. “How did we miss that she can read minds?”

“Don’t even know,” Courfeyrac responds. He waits a moment, before addressing what will quickly become an elephant in the room if he doesn’t just call attention to it immediately. “So you could hear all that? With the fake Combeferre?”

“Yep, and I’m going to pretend I couldn’t.” Enjolras says, moving to shut the door. Considering there is a stabbed body on the ground, it’s probably a good move.

“And that, my dear friend, is why I love you.”

* * *

They’ve managed to dispose of the body rather discretely (read: throw it in a lake), and are quick to move out of town. This one is messier than they usually like, and hopefully no trace will be able to lead back to them. Considering she was an underground, illegal seductress, they aren’t too worried about the police caring, or even knowing, about her disappearance. But still, it’s always a worry.

Enjolras elected to drive for a full 20 hours, trying to shorten the trip back home into two days. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had decided to stay at a hotel, but after a restless and uncomfortable couple of hours, they called it quits, and decided to follow Enjolras’ example. It’s only been ten minutes, and Courfeyrac still isn’t sure if it was a good idea or not.

It’s a quiet night; crickets are hearable when they stop at red lights, and they’ve only passed one car since they’ve left. It’s peaceful, in a tired, downtrodden kind of way. Courfeyrac’s been humming quietly to himself, trying to fill the silence.

He came out of this hunt relatively unscathed, and for that, he’s incredibly surprised and eternally grateful. Combeferre’s been eerily quiet since the succubus died, which Courfeyrac isn’t sure what to attribute to. He’s been silent for a good two hours, other than the occasional “yeah” to Courfeyrac’s questioning, and when he finally breaks the odd silence, Courfeyrac’s a bit relieved.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Combeferre asks quietly from the passengers seat. Courfeyrac spares him a glance. Outside, the streets lights are going by in flashes, little manufactured fireflies illuminating the darkness, and they’re only illuminating Combeferre in flashes every 3 seconds. Other than that, it’s too dark to see him inside the car.

“Talk about what?” He asks lightly, gaze going back to the road.

“Courfeyrac, please don’t make this difficult. It’s important. We can’t brush it off.”

“I’m honestly not sure what you’re referring to.” Combeferre makes a low, distressed sound, and all Courfeyrac wants to do is lean over and hug and hug and not let go. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, fingernails digging in.

“Back in the hotel, what you said to it before you realized.” Courfeyrac’s so startled he accidentally swerves the car, making the tires screech and leave tracks for weeks to come.

“You _heard_ that? You were miles away, in the bar!”

“I was on the _phone_ with you,” he says, exasperated.

“You weren’t supposed to be listening! _”_

“The associate was just a lie to separate us. I was sitting there alone, while you were with a dangerous creature; of course I was listening in.”

“Oh great, that’s just great. Just peachy. And now Enjolras knows, and now you know, and I confessed my undying love to a flesh eating monster. That’s just wonderful.” Thoughtlessly, he pushes on the gas pedal, forcing the Ford to fly down the highway, exerting his anger through his foot.

“I know you didn’t mean for me to hear, but I did. We need to talk about it.”

“You know what we super duper, really don’t need to talk about? That.”

“Courfeyrac, _please—_ ” Combeferre sounds a little desperate, and when Courfeyrac glances over, he’s fiddling with his shirt, and his glasses are falling down slightly, and he’s blushing. Courfeyrac can see his right hand fiddling with his ring – the one Courfeyrac gave him when Combeferre managed to graduate university while simultaneously being a Les Amis, and that little reminder of their history is what makes him sigh heavily, and take the next exit. Silently, he pulls off the highway, and into a McDonald’s that’s right off the freeway. He cuts the engine, and suddenly all that can be heard is the cicadas, loud and simple and demanding. The yellow M is blaring into their car, turning everything a pale neon, highlighting Combeferre’s skin color nicely.

“What do you want to talk about that you don’t already know?” He asks.

“I don’t know _anything._ Were you being truthful?” Courfeyrac glances over. Combeferre’s eyes are massive behind his glasses, and it rather hurts his heart to look at. He places his head on the steering wheel, sighing loudly.

“I’m not sure that’s a fair question.”

“Perhaps not, but I really, really would like to know the answer.” Courfeyrac turns his head, still lying on the wheel, to stare at him. He takes a breath, a wave of unpleasantness shuddering through him, before nodding.

“Yeah, I thought it was you. I was being truthful. Also a massive fucking idiot, but you know. It happens.”

“Why didn’t you ever _say_ anything?” Combeferre breathes, eyes wide. Courfeyrac barks a laugh, too loud.

“I _did_ , remember? Way back when - in class, when I asked you out to dinner and fucking and boyfriending? And you said, oh so eloquently and concisely, “No, not with you.” Or was that something I imagined?”

“That was _eight years ago,”_ Combeferre says, incredulous. “That doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts,” Courfeyrac snaps. “You really think I was going to try again after that?”

“And you didn’t think my opinion could change after _eight years_ of fighting and living side by side?”

“Not really,” is the honest answer, though it even sounds lame to his ears.

“You dumbass,” Combeferre breathes. “That’s what’s kept us apart?”

“Hey, you didn’t do anything either.”

“You never showed any interest!”

“I obviously did!”

“Not beyond that first time!”

“I’ve been interested _since_ that first time, so obviously it’s your observational skills that’s the problem here, not my behavior.” Courfeyrac breathes out slowly, refusing to let his mind jump to conclusions to what this means. It’s all pointing to one singular interpretation, but if he’s wrong – Jesus, if he’s wrong, he’s not sure what he’s going to do. Cry into Grantaire’s shoulder, to start. “It’s not like you showed signs of being interested either.”

“I had signs; you just were never looking.”

“I was always looking; I just didn’t know what to look for.”

“My succubus was you. How on _Earth_ did that not tip you off?” Courfeyrac blinks.

“It was what?”

“I know you saw it. At the bar? It proved it could turn into the object of my desire by turning into you?”

“I thought it was just proving it could shapeshift. I didn’t have any idea—” It shouldn’t be, but somehow, this feels like the most surprising revelation of the night. “You desire me?” He asks slowly.

“Jesus, yes,” Combeferre says wetly, his eyes starting to tear up. “I’m sorry, I’m emotional, I’ve wanted this for a while, and I’m just. I’m just happy.”

“I love you,” Courfeyrac blurts. “Just so you know. That’s the take away of this.”

“I love you,” Combeferre says back, and Courfeyrac doesn’t feel the surge of happiness he expected from it. Instead, he feels fond, so fond he can literally feel his expression relaxing. A warm, settled calm descends around him, and he knows it’s a contended happiness, and one so strong that he can feel it to his core, to where he was stitched together in his mother’s womb.

He reaches over the gearshift and grabs Combeferre’s hand.

“On the same page, then?”

“Love, dating for two years, marriage, possibly adopting a girl, and definitely buying a cat named Celinde?”

Courfeyrac is more of a dog person, but he’ll deal.

“We have the hotel room for another day,” Courfeyrac says. Combeferre grins.

“I like the way you think.” He takes his hand, and turns the car back on. It’s by far the best trip to McDonald’s he’s ever had. 

* * *

They pull up, and Courfeyrac’s entire insides are completely twisted. He can actually feel his heart pounding in his ears, his cheeks feel like they are on fire, his hands keep twirling, he’s honestly so nauseous he’s nervous about hurling, and he feels like he physically cannot stop twitching. Heart in his mouth, he steps out of the car. He goes to swat the door shut, and misses, and is so inanely frustrated that he kicks it shut with a large bang.

One step in front of the other, and he’s grabbing Combeferre’s hand, and they’re walking towards their room, and it’s one of the most bizarre experiences of his life – mentally, he’s _thrilled_ this is finally moving in this direction. Physically? He honestly has to stop his legs from pulling away, and going the opposite direction.

Back in sixth grade, Courfeyrac had been in a spelling bee. He had been in the finals, and was up against a girl named Naomi, who looked put together and far smarter than Courfeyrac would ever be. He remembers standing in front of the crowd of hundreds, of all his friends, of his parents and teachers and everyone, and wanting to explode on the spot.

His word was _pressure,_ which was irritatingly ironic, and he still remembers leaping off the stage, flying out the double doors, and hyperventilating in the hallway against some lockers, repeating _p r e s s u r e_ to himself all the while.

He knew it, he _wanted_ it (the prize was a trip to six flags), he just was so fucking nervous he couldn’t perform.

He had really, really hoped that wouldn’t happen again.

But here he was, twenty-six, with the love of his fucking life, and feeling like he needed to jump off the stage and splash his face in a middle school drinking fountain.

By the time they enter the room, he is consciously trying to regulate his breathing patterns, which all goes to shit when Combeferre slams the door shut, and subsequently roughly pushes him against it. His breath catches, and he can feel Combeferre’s large hands clutch his arms – and there’s his mouth, large, warm, and wet, moving against his neck. He squirms, arms circling Combeferre’s neck, his breath going heavy. He pulls him in tighter, hoping less space and more pressure will clam his frayed nerves.

Combeferre’s mouth moves, wandering to his face, his chin, all around, and why can’t Courfeyrac figure out what to do with his hands? Should they be in his hair? Or around his back? What did he do last time, with the last guy, Jeremy? He can’t even remember, and that was a pretty long, intense make out session –

Oh God, he should not be thinking about previous guys while making out with Combeferre. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, slightly hating himself, and clutches on to Combeferre’s sweater, hands desperate and confused, and Courfeyrac hears a small, low laugh.

Combeferre moves to his mouth, and this Courfeyrac at least has the muscle memory to respond to properly. Their lips move together, and it’s hot, and wet, and he really should have taken a deeper breath because his lungs are severely protesting, and he’s pinned against the door and can’t move, and he’s suddenly really regretting the move of wearing skinny jeans, because how is he going to get them off, they take forever, and there goes his tongue, going in slick and skilled, and weirdly Courfeyrac wonders what the last thing he ate was –

Why is he _thinking_ so much?

Stop thinking, just enjoy the sensations.

Stop thinking, just enjoy.

Stop thinking, just enjoy.

But he _can’t_ stop thinking, brains are always on, and there’s Combeferre lifting off his t-shirt, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to wear a bra because it’s one less thing to take off. Oh, and there’s Combeferre’s chest, nice and smooth, and wow, muscled, and he kind of wants to touch that, but he also isn’t sure if he’s allowed yet, and how do you just stroke someone’s chest without it being weird?

And now he’s being pushed towards the bed. Awkwardly, he climbs backwards on it, hitting his head slightly, and his hand turning a bit painfully. Combeferre makes himself busy kissing his neck, and it’s getting sweaty, and it’s getting heated, and he’s still _thinking_ and what does he do with his _hands_ and it feels so _good_ but what if it doesn’t feel good to Combeferre, he’s not really reciprocating well, he’s kind of just participating—

“Are you okay?” Combeferre whispers into his ear. Courfeyrac is shaking slightly, feeling every single place where their bodies are lined together, the hot, heavy weight and pressure feeling remarkably good. The skin on skin feels slick with sweat, and Courfeyrac can’t help his hand clutch on Combeferre’s arm desperately.

“I’m fine, “ he whispers back, quietly. “I really am.”

“We’re not continuing this if you’re not comfortable.”

“It’s not that,” Courfeyrac says, his hand holding onto Combeferre’s hair a little desperately. “I want this, I want it so much. I’m just so fucking _scared_ and _nervous_ I’m acting like a virgin high schooler.” Combeferre sits up slightly, and Courfeyrac tries to let his stomach swoop at the sight of his bare chest, his way too toned, muscular chest.

“Why on earth would you be nervous? You’re the only person in this world I could do this with and _not_ be nervous. Because it’s you.”

“Are you serious?” Courfeyrac says, sitting up. His hands clutch the sheets. “You’re the only person in this world I could do this with and _be_ nervous. Because it’s _you._ ” Combeferre stares at him a moment, uncomprehending.

“Look,” Courfeyrac sighs, looking down at the bed. “I’ve _wanted_ you since the first day we met, and I think you’ve known that. So it’s a long, long attraction. But beyond that, I’ve _loved_ you for almost as long. And so this is the only sex I’ve had where it’s not only going to massively change our relationship, hopefully for the better, but it’s also—” Courfeyrac sighs, frustrated. “It’s _you._ I finally get to touch you after eight years. I don’t want to mess up. I don’t want you to be unhappy. I’m getting what I want after so long, and it’s terrifying. Anyone else it’s meaningless. With you, it matters.”

“But it’s easy because it matters _,_ ” Combeferre says, like that’s makes any sense at all. “With strangers, with sex, you’re letting them see the most intimate parts of yourself without knowing how they’re going to take it, or treat you. You’re letting someone in you don’t trust, and that’s terrifying. But I already trust you completely. There’s nothing to lose with you or me, because we already know each other, and care for one another. I trust you; and trust makes sex good.”

Courfeyrac privately disagrees, but it doesn’t stop him from taking Combeferre’s hand in his, threading their fingers together.

“I want it, I promise. Just…slow?”

“Okay,” Combeferre says. He pulls their threaded hands up, kissing the back of Courfeyrac’s, to which he gives a slightly dazzled look. And then slowly, ever so slowly, he moves from his sitting position, throwing one leg over Courfeyrac’s lap, straddling him. He maneuvers them into a lying position, sliding Courfeyrac’s body down straight, aligning them. Courfeyrac’s breath hitches and he can’t help squirming slightly, feeling the heat come off in waves. Combeferre pulls their weaved hands up, pinning them above Courfeyrac’s head. He’s still tense, still wired, still scared, still helplessly turned on. Combeferre starts to move slightly, and Courfeyrac can feel exactly what he’s going for, and he can feel the slow slide of their slick chests against each other, and there’s Combeferre’s leg in between his, and it’s hot and heavy and slow, and there’s never been a moment Courfeyrac’s wanted to last as long as this one.

His breath is getting wheezy, but he still turns, and whispers into Combeferre’s ear, trying not to blow too much air in it and lose the moment.

“Say you love me,” he begs, and he refuses to let himself be embarrassed about it.

If the reverent way Combeferre caresses his back isn’t answer enough, he reaches up to kiss his earlobe, before whispering right back in his ear,

“Now you know I do.”

I do. It’s good to hear, and Courfeyrac can’t wait to hear it again, a hundred times, a hundred different ways.

They have a lifetime.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're unfamiliar with the Bible, look up Ecclesiastes 1:1-11 on google, and then you'll get it. 
> 
> what is up with me only being able to write awkward sex jesus
> 
>  
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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